


no grave can hold my body down

by ineffability (partlycharlie)



Series: pride month 2k19 [15]
Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Footnotes, Holy Water, M/M, SO MANY FOOTNOTES, but rEVERSED, footnotes in footnotes, the scene where crowley finds the bookshop
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-26
Updated: 2019-06-28
Packaged: 2020-05-19 23:50:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,841
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19366138
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/partlycharlie/pseuds/ineffability
Summary: Once again, Aziraphale knocks their customary knock, this time leaning in close to see if he can hear anything coming from inside.Again, nothing, and even odder - silence.Not many people know this little fact about Crowley, but the truth remains - Crowley hates silence. He likes crowds, and noise, whether it be speakers booming into his ears or gently playing classical music, and he hates when everything is quiet.It being quiet was not a good sign.





	1. betrayal

**Author's Note:**

> i have no notes uh,,,,,,
> 
> sorry to any marvel people who got this, uh. :)) you'll survive, probably
> 
> also the ONLY reason this is late is because of the Fucking Coding! Oh man!
> 
> edit: half of the footnotes aren't working and i am far too tired to try, see you again tomorrow  
> edit 2: FOOTNOTES ARE GOOD! if there are any mistakes, please let me know, but we should be clear. hope you enjoy!

Aziraphale, having since shooed Sergeant Shadwell out of the bookshop [1], blows out the candle closest to him with a great sigh.

He tried everything, too - cajoling, pleading, downright _demanding_ [2] \- but no. Not even a lower angel appeared, even just to tell him that he wouldn’t be getting to speak to Her anytime in the near (or distant future).

It was clear, in the end - She didn’t want to speak to him.

No time to fuss over it, he decides,[3] brushing imaginary dust off of his pants and pushing himself to his feet. Crowley still hasn’t called him back, and Aziraphale is just a bit tired of having to contact _him_ to tell _him_ information that _he_ wanted.

All of this is very tiring, to be honest - Aziraphale is feeling the ache in his knees that comes with not getting the time to sit down with a good book - but, well. He can’t stop time, now can he?[4]

At any rate - he pops over to Crowley’s apartment building (why he insists on living a whole thirty minutes away is beyond him) and knocks on the door.[6]

Three soft taps, two sharp knocks.

Nothing.

Nothing?

Hmm.

Once again, Aziraphale knocks their customary knock[8], this time leaning in close to see if he can hear anything coming from inside.[9]

Again, nothing, and even odder - silence.

Not many people know this little fact about Crowley, but the truth remains - Crowley _hates_ silence.[10] He likes crowds, and noise, whether it be speakers booming into his ears or gently playing classical music,[13] and he hates when everything is quiet.

He says it feels like he should be waiting for something to happen - for the other shoe to drop, as they say.

He says - well. That’s not really the point, is it?

What is the point that Aziraphale is trying to make, actually?

Oh! Yes, of course.

The point being that as a result of Crowley despising silence, his apartment was always playing some sort of music, even if the rest of the world (and Crowley himself, even) was asleep.

It being quiet was not a good sign.

He knocks one last time - one tap, two sharp knocks, one bang - and then stops, resting his fist against the door in defeat.

Right.

Time for the last resort, then.

He reaches into the soil of the little plant sitting by the front door[14] and digs out a silver key, blowing off the dust with pursed lips. A twist of the key and the door is unlocked.

“Crowley?” Aziraphale takes a cautious step into the flat, toeing off his shoes and pushing them to the side. “Crowley? Crowley, I’ve been trying to call -”

He reaches the doorway to Crowley’s office, only halfway open, and pauses.

There’s something… holy, here.

Concentrated holy, though - his nose twitches - something almost too Pure, for a flat like Crowley’s.[15]

Something…

His eyes travel down.

There - a pile of cloaked, soaked through and sticking to the floor.

There - a red bucket, overturned.

There - the thermos, with that lovely tartan pattern, uncapped and turned over on its side.

There.

“Oh, no - oh, no no no no - Crowley, what have they done to you - _what have they DONE.”_

* * *

[1] When Aziraphale says he ‘shooed’, what he really means is that he planted a Suggestion - something along the lines of _Oh dear, I have a doctor’s appointment I really must be getting to!_ \- into Sargeant Shadwell’s brain, and Shadwell was just tired enough that he forgot he hadn’t had a doctor’s appointment in close to fifteen years.[^]

[2] Even as he did it, Aziraphale had been cringing down to his very soul; it was against the whole of his nature to demand anything from God, much less to speak to Her. [^]

[3] There was plenty of time to fuss over it, in fact, but to admit so would be to take the time to think about such a thing, and quite frankley Aziraphale didn’t have the mental energy to think about a rejection from God until this whole business with the Apocolypse was over. [^]

[4] He cannot, in fact. That is something reserved for Seraphim[5], of whom Crowley is the only surviving.[^]

[5] Or former seraphim, as it were.[^]

[6] Crowley, unbeknownst to Aziraphale, used the physical distance as a way to convince himself to keep an emotional distance, as well.[7] [^]

[7] As you may be able to guess, it did not work.[^]

[8] After three or four (or more) instances of Crowley shouting, “COME IN!” to a person he thought must be Aziraphale but was most definitely not, they had decided to develop a knocking system, different each time and based on a number of factors that only She knew, so that they would know whenever the other had come to visit.[^]

[9] Aziraphale could, of course, simply _pop!_ his way into Crowley’s apartment, but when one lives amongst humans for several millennia, one starts to lose track of what one _can_ and _cannot_ do, especially in regards to angelic (or demonic, perhaps) deeds.[^]

[10] The same may or may not be said for all demons. Aziraphale wouldn’t know[11] \- he had never asked one.[12] [^]

[11] If Aziraphale decided to ask a demon - any demon, really - whether or not they disliked the silence, they would spit in his face and tell him they welcomed it, hiding any weaknesses between the ninth and tenth rib.[^]

[12] The astute reader may question whether or not Aziraphale has ever actually talked to any demon other than Crowley. This is a good question. The answer is no, of course - at least, not to his knowledge.[^] 

[13] Aziraphale would tell anybody who asks that Crowley pretends to hate classical music but actually quite enjoys listening when it is put on, always looking at Aziraphale (who is usually the one to put it on) with a quiet sort of smile on his face. Aziraphale would also tell anybody who asks that he absolutely _adores_ classical music of all types. Make of this what you will, dear reader.[^]

[14] “Sorry - sorry! I’m so sorry, dear.”[^]

[15] This is not to say that Crowley’s flat smells bad, per say - just that there is always the slightest hint of charred feathers and apple spice, not Holiness.[^]


	2. recovery

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The bartender hums. “Where’s that friend of yours? I never see you ‘round here without him.”  
> Aziraphale huffs out a laugh, humorless. “He always did like this place just a bit better than I did. No, he, uh. He couldn’t make it today.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :)
> 
> <3
> 
> warning for a bit more angst sorry yall  
> also mentions of alcohol

“One of - whatever’s easiest, I suppose.”

The bartender hums. “Coming right up. And where’s that friend of yours? I never see you ‘round here without him.”

Aziraphale huffs out a laugh, humorless. “He always did like this place just a bit better than I did. No, he, uh. He couldn’t make it today.”

The bartender hums again, looking pensive, but he doesn’t respond.

 _Good,_ Aziraphale thinks, perhaps a bit childishly. _Let him be uncomfortable. Maybe it’ll shut him up for once._ [1]

The bartender places a glass (beer, sadly - he did say whatever’s easiest, though - beggars can’t be choosers, he supposes) in front of Aziraphale and he dredges up a smile, although he has the feeling it looks more like a grimace than anything else.

“Oh, Crowley,” he murmurs to his beer glass, “darling. I didn’t even get the change to say goodbye.”

God - and he’ll never get the chance to either. 

Crowley wasn’t just discorporated; he was _Killed._ That’s - oh, Heavens above, that’s permanent.

He’ll never get to - never get to see that shock of red hair pushing its way into his bookshop, never hear his voice, never have those precious few moments where Crowley felt comfortable[2] enough to take his glasses off, showing those lovely eyes -

His phone buzzes[3] and he digs around for it[4], frowning the whole time, eyes watery. In all the time he’s had this phone, nobody’s ever called him except -

 _Crowley,_ the caller identification says, and a wrinkle appears between his brows.

Of course. Of course, they would somehow find out about him and Crowley[5] and use that against him. Of _course._

He doesn’t answer the phone; just watches it go to voicemail and takes another long sip of his beer.

It buzzes again, and he ignores it again, and it rings for the third time, and he thinks, _third time’s the charm, I suppose,_ [6] and picks it up.

“Yes?” Aziraphale asks - says, really - voice flat and probably far more depressed than he meant for it to be.

_”Aziraphale!”_

It’s Crowley’s voice.

How is it Crowley’s voice?

“Who is th - who is this?”

 _“What do you mean, who is this? Angel, look at your phone - it’s Crowley, of course, who else would it be?”_ they ask, sounding concerned.

Well.

Now Aziraphale’s just _angry._

“Oh, don’t lie to me, I went to his apartment, I _saw_ the holy water. Now. I will ask again, and it will be one last time that I will ask - who is this?”

 _“Oh. Oh, Aziraphale.”_ The person’s voice doesn’t change, just - softens, a bit.[7] _“Aziraphale - oh, you’re at the bar aren’t you? Oh, just - just hang on a second, angel, I’ll be there in just a second, oh God-”_

The phone clicks. He stares at it.

How did he know? 

\---

“Angel.”

He looks up, eyes bleary and mouth quivering.

There’s - somebody. Somebody with Crowley’s body. 

“No. We’re - no, we’re not doing this in here.” He stands up, wobbles for a second, forcibly sobers himself up, and shoves Crowley - _not him, not him, that’s NOT him_ \- out of the door and into the black of night.

“What? What are you - angel, what’s going on?”

“Take off your glasses,” Aziraphale hisses, folding his arms over his chest. “Take them _off._ His eyes are - his eyes are special, and I know _you_ -” he stabs his finger into their chest - “can’t fake those, no matter how hard you try. Eyes are the windows to the Soul.”

Their eyebrows furrow. “I don’t - angel, I. Okay.” He takes off his glasses, and - 

Those.

What?

Aziraphale claps a hand over his mouth.

His chest stops moving.

His heart stops beating.

His stomach lurches.

His legs give out, and Crowley - _Crowley, thank you God, it’s Crowley_ \- rushes forward to catch him.

God, God, God - 

It’s Crowley.

He leans forward, and Aziraphale - after six thousand years of wanting and an hour of grief - kisses him.

* * *

[1] Rest assured Aziraphale didn’t actually mean this; however, when one loses their best friend, one tends to be a bit more snappish than normal.[^]

[2] Read: drunk enough.[^]

[3] Aziraphale doesn’t particularly trust himself to turn off the ringer in pertinent situations (see: The End of Times, possibly), and has therefore decided to just keep it on vibrate at all times.[^]

[4] Aziraphale is an angel, and thus all-knowing, but also extremely forgetful and quite absent-minded.[^]

[5] What part of ‘him and Crowley’ they would find about in particular, Aziraphale has decided not to think about.[^]

[6] Really what he thinks is _Good Heaven, these are some indecently persistent bastards,_ but really it amounts to roughly the same thing.[^]

[7] The ‘bit’ that it softens would be virtually unnoticeable to anybody but Aziraphale.[^]


End file.
